Somewhere To Go
by Poppy471
Summary: Bender finally gets away from his father's house, but not in the way he expected. One-shot. This is a pretty dark one. T for language


**Prologue**

"Fuck," Bender says to a fire hydrant.

He's a few blocks from home and he's beginning to realize what he's done. That smack had been the last straw. He was tired of being a punching bag, tired of tip-toeing around, tired of the injustice. So when his father cocked his fist for yet another unearned blow, Bender decked him first. The full-on fist fight that ensued caused Ma to call the police. The police are what made him leave the job unfinished; otherwise he would have thoroughly kicked his father's ass.

So now he doesn't know if the police are looking for him or not, he doesn't have any money and he has nowhere to go. What do you do when you have nowhere to go?

**Two Months Later**

Bender pulls the duct tape tightly around the toe of his boot, hoping for a water-tight seal. They say that parts of the Alaskan pipeline are being held together by duct tape. If it's good enough for them, it's good enough for him. He really needs new boots altogether, but his feet are so big, it's a problem. And he won't wear anything but boots. No athletic shoes for him.

He's come down in the world, repairing his once proud pair of boots with tape, but he's become accustomed to a life held together with a bit of tape and a lot of gumption. The labor pool office had not come through today, so he's at loose ends. Or you could look at it another way… he's free to do much-needed maintenance. He bought the roll of tape yesterday after being paid for his single day of labor doing construction clean-up. He's given up smoking as it is just too expensive. He doesn't know how the guys who drink make it.

Boot repaired, he shoulders his backpack and leaves Clara House Day Shelter for the Homeless. He flips a wave to a couple of guys he knows by sight from the labor pool and the shelter. It's always smart to be on good terms with a variety of people. The walk to the river is easy as it is all downhill. After fifteen minutes of brisk walking, he comes to the bridge. He steps over the railing onto the beaten path. It's a steep path and a bitch when wet, but it has been dry for a week now. It curves around, back under the bridge and then he has to traverse the base of the bridge itself to reach the flat, grassy area beyond. Once back on the path, it is easy going. No one bothers coming this far, so his clearing is secluded. He unloads his pack of three 2-liter bottles of water. Water is a bitch, heavy as hell, but he has to drink water, especially with all the walking he does.

He spends an hour patching holes on his tent and reinforcing stress spots with the duct tape, then gets out his worn paperback Western. His stomach tells him it's time to start the long walk back up to town at 3:30. It takes 20 minutes of hard uphill walking. He's in time for the 4 o'clock dinner at the Catholic Mission. The food is not worth writing home about, but it is hot, plentiful and nutritious. He lines up with the other campers for an evening shower. By the time he's done, the sun is setting. Tonight it is a huge, flaming sunset. He sits on a broken piece of concrete wall alongside the Mission and watches it for a while. He finds that if he holds his book open people bother him less. Not being a smoker helps too, no one trying to bum cigarettes. After 20 minutes of soaking up the beauty of the sunset, he reluctantly gets to his feet for the downhill walk back to his camp.

The river is still painted gold by the sunset but it is getting dim under the bridge. Ducking down under the bridge, he sees a figure sitting on the first foundation for the tall bridge towers. Something about that figure looks familiar. It tugs at his brain. It's a woman by herself, which is strange. She doesn't seem to belong here; she's too tidy and fresh. She gets up as he watches and turns toward him. It's Allison Reynolds. He half walks half slides down the base of the bridge to the tower foundation.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Oh, hi John," she says in a maddeningly dreamy way.

"You need to get out of here. What the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"I thought the perspective from beneath the bridge would be interesting."

He now notices the sketch book she's tucking into her huge purse.

"Allison, what's wrong with you, climbing under a bridge?" He grabs her elbow and urges her towards the incline, up to the top path.

"I saw the path and got curious."

"People made that path and they are people you don't want to know. Come on, move it."

"But you're here."

He stops talking, just continues to guide her along. It's gray and shadowy right up under the bridge itself. She ducks down and clears the bridge. He all but pushes her up the short curving path to the railing and road. She turns as if she might stop and chat.

"Look, you shouldn't be anywhere near this place by yourself after dark. I'll walk you up the hill."

"Oh, it's okay, John. I walk here all the time."

"You're damn stupid then. Get a move on; we need to get you out of here."

A rundown looking couple is approaching from town.

"Professor," the man greets Bender.

"Hey, Tennessee."

"Why did he say 'Professor'?" Allison at least has the sense to wait until they are out of earshot to ask.

"It's what they call me. Because I always have a book, I guess."

"Who is Tennessee? Why do I not want to meet these people you talk about?"

He realizes he has to spell it out.

"He's homeless and he lives under that bridge with other homeless people, people you don't want to mix with."

"How do you know him?"

She asks as if an acquaintance with Tennessee is a desirable one.

"Goddammit, because I live down there too."

"You're homeless?"

"I camp. Okay? I camp by the river."

"Why do you do that?"

"Because I have nowhere else to go." Saying this hurts his heart. It's the flat honest truth and he avoids thinking about it as much as possible. Seeing Allison stirs up memories and desires he works hard to block out. So he gets pissed off at her. What is she doing here, with her nice clean Converse shoes and ridiculous sketchbook and naïve questions? He walks on, quickly, to get rid of her. Why did she have to come down there?

"John, slow down."

He realizes she's been lagging behind and waits for her to catch up. Her legs are shorter and she isn't used to doing this hill a couple of times a day. Somehow, her struggle to keep pace with him softens him. She can't help being naïve. Would he really want her to know the answers to all the questions he himself had figured out the hard way?

"Allison, promise me you won't come down there again. It isn't safe for a woman alone."

"Could I come down with you?"

"Why?"

"Because I wouldn't be alone if I were with you."

"No, I mean why would you want to be down there at all?"

"The river is pretty down there."

He sees all the ugliness, the cardboard box beds hidden right up under the road, the 40 ounce beer bottles rolled into the thick grass, the labor and desperation that made the deep paths through the brush. He sees the people who live there and how ugly humans can become when you strip them down to fighting for the bare necessities of life. He doesn't see the river or the sunset light or the strong soaring lines of the bridge towers. She does. He thinks about the flaming sunset he watched from the Mission. Everyone needs some beauty and she sees it everywhere.

"Yeah, okay, I'll take you down there sometime. But promise me, don't go by yourself."

"I promise I won't." She says this solemnly. "When can I come?"

He thinks about this. He never knows if he will get work at the labor pool or not. But they are closed on Sundays. Today is Saturday.

"Tomorrow is good. We can meet in town at one." He isn't sure why he is doing this. He pushes the question away.

They are coming up on Main Street now, well lit and well-travelled at this hour.

"Meet me here, at this bus stop." There is a convenient bench. "Wear good shoes. You got any boots?"

She grins. "Combat boots. I never have anywhere to wear them."

Trust Allison to have combat boots.

"See you tomorrow, you basket case."

She gives a tiny wave with a mischievous look in her eye.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Bender gets into town at ten and signs up for a shower at Clara House. He gets out his book and settles into a corner of the day room to wait for an hour until his turn. Clara House is the best place to take a shower. They provide you with all the toiletries you might need and soft fluffy towels. When it is his turn, he showers and puts on the clean clothes he brought in his backpack, worn dark blue Levis and a white t-shirt.<p>

After his shower, he goes to the Mission for lunch. He waits in line for that too. You spend a lot of time waiting when you're homeless. He shoots the shit with Brandon, another guy his own age, one of the few he knows who doesn't drink. Nice thing about homeless people? They never ask about your family. He knows nothing personal about Brandon except that he is from Florida, and Brandon knows little more about him than that he's a native. Today they talk about the last job they worked together, more construction clean-up.

"Always try to work with Jeff. He's a good guy. Frank will slack off and then blame us for being behind, like people from the Mission can't do a good job."

Brandon doesn't camp, he stays at the Mission, which entails lining up immediately after dinner to get a place to unroll a thin mattress on the floor. But it's safer, and out of the elements. Bender prefers camping because so many people in one place make him claustrophobic. If you try to work and don't let drinking or drugs make problems, you can get a bed at Hope Outreach or the Jewish place. A real bed, with a locker that locks, so you don't have to carry your stuff around. But the waiting lists are long. He plans to get on the list in the fall, so he'll be under a roof for the winter. But for now, in the summer, camping is what he prefers.

Since the bus stop bench is in the shade, he waits for Allison there after lunch, reading more of his book.

Allison is wearing combat boots, as promised, Vietnam surplus jungle boots, with loose black pants, an olive green shirt and a trailing black cardigan with sleeves that unroll over her hands. She manages to look wispy even in huge boots.

Bender stands to greet her. She gives him a shy smile. He realizes he hasn't seen her since Claire went away for college and he dropped out of the breakfast club group, and he's never seen her without Andy at all. His new life has made him more circumspect, though, and he doesn't ask about Sporto.

"It's easy going down, it's a bitch coming back to town. I hope those boots are broken in."

"I wear them when I walk behind the railroad tracks."

"Jesus, you like to live on the edge. What on earth do you do there?"

"I draw."

"I swear if you were sent to hell, you'd find something to draw,"

She laughs her odd Allison laugh and says, "Damned souls."

She's weirder than he remembers her.

They walk in silence. She seems to be looking around with curiosity, even though it is just a rundown street. A few blocks from the river, the buildings change from residential to very old brick industrial buildings, mainly empty.

As they draw close to the bridge, Bender says, "It'd be better if we didn't hang out right under the bridge itself; the people under there are pretty heavy drinkers, and a bit unpredictable. We can walk down to my camp. You can still see the bridge from there."

She receives this information without comment. When they get to the bridge, she swings over the railing gracefully, as if she's been doing this as long as he has. They walk down the curving path, duck under the bridge, go halfway down the embankment and then across the base of the bridge. He gives her a hand traversing the base of the bridge as it is a steep slope. Then they are at the beginning of his path. It takes a minute or so to walk to his clearing and tent.

"This is home," he says, suddenly feeling strange.

She looks around the shady clearing, at the trees and brush which cover the slope that drops down steeply from the street far above, at the river, at the grassy spot where his tent is pitched.

"It's nice," she says. "These are locust trees; they're good luck."

No one ever comes out here with him. The place where you camp is very private if you camp alone.

"You want some water?" It is all he has to offer, but it is cool from sitting at the base of the largest locust tree.

"Sure. I brought some tangerines." She pulls four from her purse. Fresh fruit is hard to come by, so it is a far more welcome gift than she realizes. She settles on a fallen tree trunk and he takes a seat on a large, smooth stone. She tosses him a tangerine and begins peeling one for herself. He pours some water into his only cup and hands it over, then drinks straight from the bottle. He is not equipped for guests.

"Why are you here?" she asks.

"Not many people come out this way because the base of the bridge is so steep. Too much trouble."

"Why are you camping in the woods?"

"Things got a little hot at home and I had to split suddenly. This is where I ended up." He shrugs. How do you explain something like this? Without a deposit and first month's rent you can't get an apartment, and without a fixed address it's hard to get a steady job. Working through the labor pool office doesn't get you enough to rent a place. It's a vicious circle.

They peel and eat their fruit.

"Can you climb trees?" he asks.

"Yeah, easy ones. Why?"

"There's a tree that hangs out over the river. You can see the bridge from it."

He leads her to the camphor tree and watches as she shinnies out on the branch above the river. Seeing her settled there, he returns to the clearing and retrieves his book. But he doesn't read it. He watches her get out her sketch book.

He must have dozed off because he is startled by the sound of her feet scuffing the path. He's fine-tuned to hear small things like that even in his sleep. You have to be, to get by out here.

"Let's see what you drew," he suggests when she enters the clearing. She doesn't hand him the book, but holds it tilted so he can look. Coming closer, he sees a sketch of the bridge across the shallow water, graceful and tall. But he also sees a sketch of a 40 ounce beer bottle nestled in some grass like an egg snug in its nest. Somehow she has made it look beautiful. Then he notices her smell, very faint, flowery and sweet. He hasn't smelled a woman in weeks. He straightens up and looks at her. Her pale skin is flawless, and her clothes are so fresh and new. Even her boots are clean. An urge to touch her cheek ambushes him and he quickly steps away.

"Those are nice." He wishes he could articulate his feelings about the drawings, how they tug at him, how they show him what he has never seen in these familiar objects.

It's almost three, time to get her back up the hill and himself to the Mission for dinner.

"Can I come back?" she asks.

"I guess so. Why?"

"I want to draw the camphor tree, and the locust trees, and the river, and do your portrait."

"My portrait?" He doesn't know how he feels about that.

"Can I come tomorrow?"

"I don't know if I'll be working. I never know. You taking classes or anything? I can call you if I don't get work."

"No classes, no work, just my drawing. Let me give you my number."

They work out the details, then he's on his way to line up for dinner. Brandon sits with him.

"Got a new girlfriend?"

"No, just a friend. From before."

"You might want to say she's your girl. Easier that way. People will know not to bother her."

Brandon has been on the streets longer than he has so he takes this advice seriously. He doesn't want Allison being hassled by every low-life around. She just doesn't understand how dangerous people can be. But he can extend protection over her. He has a reputation of being able to take care of himself.

* * *

><p>At seven the next morning, when it is obvious no new jobs will be coming into the labor pool office, Bender goes over to Clara House to kill time before calling Allison. He's almost done with this book, so he goes to the free library shelf and browses. He finds a Louis L'Amour he hasn't read yet—some short stories.<p>

He uses the free phone at nine to call her. She'll meet him at the bus stop again.

She looks happy to see him, her pale face glowing.

"Well, Miss Reynolds, you have a new boyfriend."

"I do?"

"Yeah, I have to say you're my girl so people won't bother you. If you're going to be hanging around here."

"Okay John, I'll be your girl." She seems quite taken with the idea. "Do we have to hold hands? Is there a pin I should wear? Or a name tag? A secret handshake?"

He laughs. "No, nothing special, I just have to say you're my girlfriend. A name tag would be easier though."

Some guys stake out their property, marking their girls with hickeys on the neck. Disgusting guys who think women are there to be owned. But that's who he is protecting her from, so he must "own" her. Nothing as crude as a hickey, though. Brandon will help spread the word.

Down at the bridge, Tennessee shouts a greeting, so he figures this is a good time to demonstrate ownership and puts his arm around Allison and whispers, "Wave to Tennessee, girlfriend."

She waves and for good measure puts her arm around him as well. "Should I kiss you?" she asks in his ear. She kisses his cheek without waiting for an answer. She is in danger of dissolving in giggles and he has to hold on to her to keep her from sliding down the embankment.

"Oops."

She's still laughing when they get to his camp. He feels a bit chagrined that being his girlfriend is so amusing. Lots of girls have been his girlfriend; it's not so improbable.

He seats himself on his smooth stone with his book again and lets Allison do her thing. She walks around, poking at things, squatting down for close inspection, then wanders down to the river.

When he opens his eyes, she's looking at him intensely, sketchbook on her knee. He doesn't like that she came up so quietly while he was asleep. Why hadn't he heard her? He realizes she's drawing him, though, and doesn't move, just murmurs, "You almost done?"

"Yes, I'm done."

Then why was she staring at him like that? Weird girl.

"Can I see?"

She hands over the sketchbook and he sees himself, leaning against the tree with his eyes closed, book in hand. She did the sketch in soft strokes, making him smooth and mild looking. He has a crease of worry across his forehead despite being asleep, as if he were in pain. He's never seen himself look like that.

"You mind if I look through this?" he asks. She shrugs.

He flips to a sketch of the locust tree he is leaning against, and there he is again, a small indistinct figure at the base of the tall group of trees. There is one of the river and another of a small flower. She's been busy.

His stomach announces the time as twelve noon. He's been eating on the Mission schedule so long his body is like an alarm clock, complaining if he doesn't get his meals on time. He snags his backpack from the tent and digs through it, coming up with some crackers, sardines and canned mandarin oranges.

"You hungry?"

She is, and she accepts the food readily. Half a tin of sardines doesn't satisfy his hunger so he dredges up some Spaghetti-Os, opens them and sticks in a spoon. He scoops up a bite and offers them to Allison.

"Cold?" she asks.

"No stranger than pixie stix sandwiches."

"No thanks, but I forgot…"

She digs around in her purse and comes up with a package of candy. She tosses the package to him. He inspects it. Gummi bears.

"Thanks." He tucks the package in the pocket of his shirt. He does like Gummi Bears, but that was a bit random. Well, Allison is a bit random.

* * *

><p>Later, after Bender has walked Allison up the hill, after having dinner with Brandon, after hiking back to the camp, he finds the Gummi Bears in his pocket. He goes out to the camphor tree and settles himself over the river to eat his candy. It's another beautiful sunset. He watches until it is shadowy, then carefully makes his way back down to the ground. He feels a lightness he hasn't felt in a long time. He rolls it about, trying to identify it. It is hope.<p>

* * *

><p>Bender refuses to call her. He has no business hoping anything that has to do with her. He can't hope she will join him in his destitute life, and he has no expectation of being able to pull himself out of this situation. There is nowhere they can meet. Yes, she could visit a couple of times, but that's enough. She needs to go do her art somewhere else.<p>

* * *

><p>Life goes on, sometimes getting work, sometimes not. Bender's known as a good worker now, but that doesn't mean work every day. He finally saves up enough money for boots, which is a good thing as the patches upon patches of tape were wearing through on his old ones. He thinks of Allison when he puts on his boots, thinks of her ridiculous yet somehow perfect jungle boots. Sometimes it's nice to think of her, knowing someone so odd, in her exact Allison way, exists. But mostly he tries to push her out of his mind along with all the other things he tries not to think about… a real bed, a private shower, the company of women (Allison doesn't count as 'women,' she's her own category), being able to take off your shoes and go barefoot. He really misses going barefoot. He wears socks even in his sleep, as protection from spiders. And to get away from all the dirt. You can't stay clean… muddy boots, sitting on dusty walls and stones, doing heavy work and not being able to shower until morning. The thing he has nightmares about, though, are the people. They'd all pretty much be nice people in normal circumstances, but when you get down to basic survival, literally fighting for food and shelter, it can turn people ugly. He's tired of seeing the ugly side of life. But he can't think about that too much. It's too painful to go through all the time, so he's taught himself to not want these things and only thinks of them occasionally, at night, when he's alone.<p>

"Hey, Bender," someone calls. It's Brandon. They're at Clara House, both having been overlooked at the labor pool that morning.

"Bender, your girl's been looking for you."

He immediately knows he's talking about Allison.

"Fuck," he says to himself. "Where is she?" he asks Brandon.

"She's been hanging out at that bus stop. She's there right now."

"Goddamn fuck it. Thanks, Brandon." And he's off, hoping to find her, hoping to make her go away, hoping to get rid of her for good. (Hoping to smell her flowery scent, hoping to see her glowing skin, hoping to see her smile.)

Brandon's right, she's sitting at the bus stop, sketchbook out, intent upon a lamppost, it looks like. Trust her to find a lamppost interesting.

"Do you know how stupid you're being?" No greeting, no niceties.

"Oh, hello John," she says in her abstracted way.

"You don't know who might see you here. Tennessee knows who you are, at the very least. He's not a nice guy; you don't want him to notice you." Her spacey Allison manner sparks deep affection and furious anger in him.

"Oh, I saw Tennessee. He said hi."

"Well, you're damn lucky all he did was say hi. What do you think you're doing?"

"Finding you."

Her placidity is maddening.

"You found me. Now you need to go away. Don't come back." he says, cold with anger.

"But I have something for you."

Jesus, more candy? A tangerine? She's so hopelessly impractical. But she pulls out a camp stove. A fancy one.

"Put that away. Right now." He looks around. Such a stove would get him jumped. He can take care of himself, but he's just one guy and there are people who run in packs. Thank god, there's no one around to notice it.

He sees he'll need to talk to her, she won't simply go away. He sits down.

"Allison, you don't understand life out here. You can't hang around giving me expensive gifts. You can't hang around at all. It's too dangerous." He looks into her eyes. "You can't see me. You need to leave me alone. It's safer for both of us. You're putting me in danger too."

"But why?"

Her childish curiosity makes him feel soft inside, but he can't be soft.

"It's not safe to have what other people want. If you have something they want, they'll kick your ass to get it. And you're desirable. You look like you have money and you're pretty. Allison," he puts as much earnestness into his voice as he can, "you're not safe. I can't keep you safe if you come here by yourself."

"So I can't come alone? But I'd be okay with you?"

"You don't get what I'm saying. You can't be around here at all. You don't belong, people can tell that, and they'll come after you."

He takes her hand. "Please Allison, go away. Just go away. You can't be in my life." He's on the verge of tears. Why won't she leave him?

He carefully disengages her hand and puts it on her lap. "Go."

And she does go, looking defeated. He hates to see her look that way, all he wants to do is call her back. But she needs to go away and never come again.

He walks back to his camp, all appetite fled, only wanting to be alone with his pain.

* * *

><p>The days pass and he puts his encounter with Allison where he puts everything painful, locked up tight in a far recess of his mind. She's the last thing on his mind when Tennessee calls him over.<p>

"Couple guys at your camp, Professor, with that girl of yours."

"Thanks Tennessee." He traverses the base of the bridge then gets out his switchblade… a new one to replace the one Allison stole. He doesn't like knives, but he'll use one if he has to.

What he finds is Allison with Andy and some guy he doesn't know. At least she didn't come alone, but he can instantly tell the guys don't belong. If he can tell, so can everyone else. And who is this other guy anyway?

They turn when he enters the campsite and clears his throat. That other guy, he can't believe it, is the dork, but he's several inches taller and filled out. He looks pretty formidable, a far cry from detention two years ago. He's still got that dorky look on his face, though.

"Jesus fucking Christ, why didn't you bring Cherry too?"

"She wanted to come," Allison says, as if afraid his feelings might be hurt by her absence.

"All of you, you need to get out of here." They don't move.

"Scram. You're not wanted here."

"Bender, we're here to help," Andy starts.

"I don't need your fucking help. Get the hell out of my place."

"No." Andy looks as stubborn and pissed off as he's ever seen him.

"If you don't fucking go…"

"You're gonna make me?"

Bender pulls out his switchblade and opens it.

"You're not gonna use that and you know it. Put it away and let us talk to you."

He can't bluff Andy. He folds the knife and pockets it. "You've got five minutes."

"Allison told Claire—" Andy starts.

"You had to tell Claire? I trusted you, Allison. Why did you do it?"

"You never said this was a secret. And I thought Claire could help." For once, Allison doesn't seem placid.

"Hah. She can't help me. Claire has her head so far up her—"

"Let's watch the language, bud," Andy says.

"Harsh language is the least of your worries out here, Sporto."

"You can still be civilized."

"Don't be so sure."

"Claire thought—" Allison begins.

"Look, Claire can't help unless she walks around with construction jobs in her pocket."

"But she does," Allison replies.

He doesn't know what to say to this. How could Claire have anything to do with construction jobs?

"Her dad, he owns C & S Construction," Brian chimes in at last. "You didn't know that?"

He's speechless, something that rarely happens to him.

"Claire said her dad could get you a job, and you could borrow—" Allison tries to continue.

He cuts her off. "I don't need Claire's charity."

"Seems to me you do," Andy says. "You're living in the woods, you're homeless, you can't get regular work. You can't get out of this by yourself, man."

"John, let us help you, we're your friends." Allison is twisting her hands, looking anguished. He can't stand to see her like that.

"Okay, let's get one thing straight, no money from Claire. I can take care of myself. Get me a job, I can get out of here on my own. That's all I want, a job."

"Now you're making sense. Mr. Standish can talk to you tomorrow. He can meet you at the labor pool office."

"Oh Jesus, just what we need, Mr. Prep showing up in the middle of this neighborhood. He'll come in his beamer?"

"Okay, fine, one of his employees can come." Andy looks at Bender as if he expects another objection. "He'll come and see what your skills are and what kind of job Mr. Standish can offer you."

"I can't do jack but push a broom. I ain't got no skills."

"Let Mr. Standish decide that for himself. You took all those classes in shop, you can do something."

"You can make a lamp," Brian volunteers.

Bender laughs. "More than you can do, shrimp."

Allison has stopped wringing her hands, but she looks more alert and sharp than he's ever seen her.

"Okay, yeah, since you're here, you wanna sit? Have some water? Water's all I got."

With a look of glee, Allison pulls an old, battered little camp stove from her purse.

"There, it's not nice." She looks so pleased with herself.

She starts digging in her purse and comes up with a box of herbal tea.

"Herbal tea? You expect me to drink that?"

"No, that's for me. Here." She pulls out a jar of instant coffee. But that's not all, she has Styrofoam cups and plastic spoons, a dented camp pot, even a plastic jug of water. Maybe she isn't so impractical after all. And how did she fit all of that into that purse of hers?

Brian has dragged over a couple of logs and they all sit while Allison boils water. She seems to be enjoying the little stove.

"So Sporto, how's school going? Still rolling around with other guys in tights?"

"Yeah, I got the scholarship. I'm a letterman."

"Some honey got that letter yet?" He involuntarily looks at Allison, who is pouring hot water now.

"Nope, I'm focusing on academics, no time for honeys."

Bender, so good at hiding things from himself, refuses to acknowledge the little jump his heart gives and resists the urge to look at Allison again.

"Did Claire get Tri Delt or whatever?"

"Yeah, she got into her mom's sorority. I don't think she likes it much. Too many people trying to tell her what to do." Andy gives Bender a sly look. "She's been cured of conformity by someone we know."

"She's dating an artist. To make her father mad," Allison interjects.

"That limp dick is making you look good by comparison," Andy contributes.

"You weren't robbing the cradle, John." Allison says this with relish. "I think we know what Claire's answer to your question would be today."

They all know which question that is, his insistent demands to know the status of her virginity in detention. But he knows the answer to that question already. She isn't such a pristine girl. Not always.

Allison passes out the hot drinks and they reminisce about the days of the breakfast club group, before they all drifted different ways.

"Oh, hey, it's time for you guys to go, you gotta get Allison up that hill before dark."

"Mr. Standish's man will be there tomorrow at seven," Andy says.

"Thanks, man. Tell Claire thanks." He looks sternly at Allison. "Tell her NOT to come here."

Bender escorts the group across the base of the bridge. As he is helping her across, Allison asks, "Can you call me?"

"Yeah. I can do that. Tomorrow, after I talk to this guy."

He walks them right up to the bridge railing. Andy hangs back, saying, "You guys go, I'll be right there."

"Don't hurt her, man," Andy says to Bender.

"Who? Claire?"

"You know who. She likes you. Don't hurt her."

"I wouldn't do that." He has never said anything with so much conviction. Andy seems satisfied and catches up with the others.

* * *

><p>"Say, Brandon, you got any skills?" Bender wants to know.<p>

Brandon laughs. They are eating at the Mission. "Hell no, if I had skills I'd be out of here."

"No, I mean, you ever take shop or anything?"

"Yeah, I liked woodworking."

"Me too. I got someone you should meet. He needs guys for restoring houses, finishing gingerbread work, stripping woodwork, stuff like that."

* * *

><p>Bender calls Allison on Sunday. As usual, he meets her at the bus stop. On the walk down, she is telling him, "No, it's not like calf liver, it's from geese. It's good. You'll see."<p>

"I dunno, I'll try it." He's dubious.

At the camp, once water is on the stove, Allison arrays a picnic on an oilskin table cloth she brought. It's amazing what she can fit in that purse. She's brought those fancy little crackers, all different shapes and sizes, some of this pâté stuff, a weird smelling cheese and grapes. To be polite, he tries some of everything, and the pâté really is good, especially that clear layer on top. The cheese is not so good, but he takes it like a man. They finish with coffee. By then the rain had started, a light pattering on the tarp above, another gift from the surprisingly practical Allison.

After stowing the food in a locked box (raccoons being undesirable), he turns to find her standing at the edge of the tarp, looking at the rain. He quietly comes to stand behind her. She looks at him over her shoulder, then returns to watching the woods in the rain.

He gives in to his desire to touch her and gently puts a hand on her shoulder, allowing his fingers to spread, moving across the smooth fabric and feeling her collarbone and the slender shape of her shoulder. His hand drifts up to massage the muscles where her neck joins her shoulder. Her light, flowery scent rises. His other hand joins; he is now massaging the back of her neck. She has let her head tip forward and she makes a noise of relaxation and release. He can't help himself. He brushes back her hair and puts his mouth against her salty skin. Instead of pulling away as he'd expected her to do, she leans back into his chest. He circles her waist with one hand, pulling her closer; he slips his hand under her shirt, feeling the warm, smooth skin of her soft stomach. Now she does pull away, but only to turn and meet his mouth with hers. An uncounted time later, she pulls away, eyes dilated, breath fast.

"Slow down, John. Slow down." She pulls him into a tight embrace, her cheek against his chest. "We have time," she murmurs.

Wrapping her in his arms, he buries his face in the scent of her hair.

* * *

><p>Brandon and Bender flop on the couch they just hauled up three flights of stairs to their new apartment.<p>

"She's your girl for real, now, isn't she?" Brandon asks.

"You got that right. Keep your hands to yourself."

"No, man, I wouldn't want to mess with you."

Allison wanders in with a strange cone-shaped object, looking as if she arrived at the wrong party by accident.

"Where do you want this, John?" she asks.

"I don't know what the hell that is, much less where it should go."

"It's a lava lamp," Brandon explains. "Put it in his bedroom, he'll like it in there." He winks at her. She gives him a sly smile and nods.

When she returns from his bedroom, Bender says, "Brandon wants to know if you're my girl." He grabs her by the waist and pulls her onto his lap. Giggling, she collapses against him.

With a huge amount of noise, Andy and Brian shove a dresser through the door.

"Look at this bum, sitting around while we do the hard work," Andy says.

"You had to pick a third floor apartment, didn't you, Bender?" Brian complains.

Claire arrives just as the last piece of furniture is being pushed into place. She has a painting in her hand.

"Bender, this is for your new place. A house warming gift."

It is a green and orange abstract of phenomenal ugliness.

"Claude did it, just for you."

"I guess he doesn't like me," Bender mutters to Brandon. Brandon tries not to laugh. Brian and Andy, overhearing this gibe, also fail in their attempts to not laugh.

"Men," Claire says huffily as she rolls her eyes. "Allison, you're the artist, where should this go?"

"In the kitchen. Over the table."

"I'll never be able to eat again," Bender whispers. The guys don't try to stop laughing this time.

The girls bustle off to take care of the art.

Bender leans back on his sofa, arms spread along the back, puts his boots up on the coffee table and heaves a great sigh of contentment. Who needs family when you've got friends?


End file.
